


Dark Academia

by funkyfaerie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkyfaerie/pseuds/funkyfaerie
Summary: Martin Blackwood, despite all evidence and opinion to the contrary, is not stupid. He knows how he comes across. He knows that because he’s a bit big and a bit tall and talks a bit slow that people think he’s dull, but he’s really not. He’s not stupid.That said, he is beginning to suspect that he’s going mad. Because there is something very, very wrong with the Magnus Academy.The boarding school AU that no one asked for. Martin is the only sane one around. The Avatars are a clique. Elias is, as ever, a massive dick. Reader beware, I have stripped canon for parts and remade it in my own self-indulgent image.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 147





	1. Strange

Martin Blackwood, despite all evidence and opinion to the contrary, is not stupid. He knows how he comes across. He knows that because he’s a bit big and a bit tall and talks a bit slow that people think he’s dull, but he’s really not. He’s not stupid.

That said, he _is_ beginning to suspect that he’s going mad.

The Magnus Academy wasn’t his first choice for schooling, especially since it’s in the middle of fuck-off nowhere, but it’s not as if he had much choice in the matter. With his good-for-nothing father gone and his mother—well, she’s gone too, now. It’s still fresh, that one, and they didn’t have any money while she was alive, let alone after. They’d used everything they had and then some for her treatment, and there was barely enough left to cover the funeral costs once she passed. That was almost a year ago, now. Martin seriously thought he was going to end up homeless, before the application for the Magnus Academy showed up in the mail. Bit of good luck, that, although now he’s starting to suspect that it wasn’t luck at all. But alone and penniless, without any prospects and after dropping out of school for a year to take care of his mother, Martin couldn’t see any other option but to apply.

He'd been accepted, obviously. Full ride. Room and board, too. It all seemed like a dream come true at the time, like something was finally going right. Sure, he was still alone, but at least he had a safe place to sleep. At least he would be back in school. The administration didn’t even make him wait until the new academic year to enroll, slotting him in as soon as possible. He’d even have his own room and not have to share with a suitemate because of his delayed enrollment. Yet another stroke of luck.

At first, he thought it was just new-student jitters, the oddness of being a in a completely new environment. He’d done plenty of reading on the school before applying, though much of it was similar. Lots of glossy photographs of students laughing and studying on expansive grounds or huddled in corners of the largest library Martin had ever seen. Long lists of notable alumni and a whole alphabet of accolades. The library itself seemed to pull attention and funding in particular, and lots of the promotional material boasted of archival research the likes of which were only found in the Academy. Why a boarding school would double as a research facility and what, exactly, they were researching wasn’t mentioned and Martin didn’t care much to dig into it any further.

Now he wishes that he’d looked into things a bit more carefully. Maybe called some of those illustrious alumni, or reached out to current students. He should’ve done an interview, at the very least, but at the time, staring down the barrel of homelessness after only six months without his mother, well. It seemed like a good option. A great option, in fact.

There’s something wrong with the Magnus Academy. Martin doesn’t know what it is, but there’s _something_ about this place. It’s strange. Strange with a capital-S, the kind that creeps under your skin and stays there, burrowing so deep you almost forget about it. The other students are…odd. And not just because they’re rich kids. Martin doesn’t know what it is about them, exactly, but he doesn’t like the way some of them look at him as he walks by, like he’s meat. He tries to chalk it up to being a new student—a new boarder who showed up out of the clear blue nowhere in the middle of the year—but there’s some part of him that knows that’s not quite right. They travel in very distinct packs, these other students. The ones that travel in packs, that is. There are quite a few loners like him that roam the halls without bothering to make small talk with the other students. Besides some strange looks, none of them seem to bother with him, really. Not even bullies, which is surprising at a posh place like this. He expected some rich arsehole to make fun of his ratty clothes, at the very least, but so far, nothing.

He’s trying not to let it get to him, the loneliness, and he knows he should be grateful. This is by far the better option to being stuck with nowhere to go back home, but he can’t help but think that this is worse, somehow, than when his mother was sick. At least they had each other, then. Even when she was half-delirious and shouted at him, at least they were together. At least there was someone else in the house. The Magnus Academy may be filled with students, but it feels totally empty. The Gothic archways and impossibly tall ceilings make him feel like he’s walking beneath an empty sky, like he’s the only person in the whole world. Sometimes he thinks he might not be there at all and has to take a moment to pause, feel his heart beating in his chest, and remind himself that he’s still breathing.

The empty feeling is only matched by the sense that he’s being _watched_ from every angle, but that, at least, Martin is used to. Kids at his old school used to tease him for having a sick mum, for being big and soft and slow. He’d always feel their eyes on his as he walked by, waiting for him to make a mistake, waiting for him to give them a reason to mock him or shove him or take his things. Sometimes they did those things even when he didn’t give them a reason.

So far, the only place in the whole school that doesn’t make him feel actively on edge is the library. Even his room is unsettling, not because it’s Strange, but because it’s empty. Martin packed up his whole life when he came here and he doesn’t even have enough things to fill up the tiny single bedroom in the boys’ dormitory.

_Perhaps Mum was right about leaving an impression_ , he thinks one night, gazing about the empty space and the bare walls. There’s nothing of him here, even though it’s everything he has. Everything he is, really. The thought makes him miss his mother and he goes to bed feeling ill.

But the library is alright. Part of his acceptance had been some kind of on-campus position and Martin had quickly jumped at the opportunity to be a research assistant. He likes books and reading, always has, and he’d much rather spend his time in the library than in the administration office or, God forbid, the cafeteria. It’s quiet there, but Martin can always hear his own heartbeat, so he counts that as a win. The books are comforting; they’re old and dusty and when no one’s looking Martin likes to walk up and down the aisles looking at the titles. There are more than a few volumes on paranormal subjects, which he thinks is odd, but who is he to judge? This whole place is odd. They _would_ have a section of the library devoted to spooky goings-on.

The other two research assistants, Sasha and Tim, seem alright too. They’re not Strange, and they’re nice enough to him during his first week, explaining what he’ll be doing and what’s expected of him. The archival system in the library is positively archaic—most of it isn’t even digital—which Martin thinks is a little bit romantic, but the other two complain about so frequently that he keeps that opinion to himself. Most of what he does at the moment is filing, and occasionally digging into some random request or other.

“And whatever you do,” Sasha said on Martin’s first day on the job. He didn’t know it at the time but her face was uncharacteristically serious, teasing. “Don’t piss off Jon.”

“Who’s Jon?”

Tim had poked his head around a precarious stack of books. “Our dickhead boss. Kind of. He’s a year ahead and pretty much took over running shop after the old librarian fucked off at the beginning of the year. Did anyone ask him to do so? No. Did he do it anyway? Yes. Is he an absolute tosser about the whole thing? Absolutely.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean Bouchard asked him to,” Sasha pointed out with a smile.

Tim rolled his eyes. “What _ever_ , Sasha. It’s still not an excuse for being such a massive arsehole.”

“Is he really that bad?” Martin asked when Tim returned to whatever he’d been doing.

“No,” Sasha promised. “And Tim doesn’t think so either. I think he’s just mad that he didn’t get asked to do the job himself—”

“Not true!” Tim’s voice echoed from the stacks. “Lies and slander!”

Sasha giggled, running her fingers through her hair. “He’s kidding. Jon’s a bit prickly, a little weird, but he’s a fine enough guy. Just don’t mention the tape recorders, okay? Pro tip.”

Martin made a mental note not to mention any tape recorders when interacting with this mysterious Jon who may or may not be his boss.

They’re nice in the library, but other than that, Sasha and Tim basically stick to themselves. They wave in the halls and sometimes say hi, but Martin has accepted that they’re going to be acquaintances. Work friends at the very best. He’s come to terms with that by the first month in, become accustomed to the loneliness. It’s not so bad, he thinks. He’s got a routine down, in any case, and he’s always done better with a routine.

Wake up, run down to grab some breakfast and more importantly, tea, before his first classes. Then lunch, more classes, a shift at the library, homework, and bed. It’s not the most interesting in the world, but he’s doing well in his classes so far and his teachers don’t seem to have any complaints. He’s getting the hang of being here, he’s sure that he is. It’s really not that bad, if he ignores how utterly and irrevocably creepy this place is. Which is tough to do, but Martin is adaptable. He’s adapting. He’ll adapt.

He actually thinks it’s going sort of okay when he gets lost. He shouldn’t be walking around the grounds at night, he knows he shouldn’t, but every time he closes his eyes it feels like _something_ is waiting for him in the dark. Waiting for him to close his eyes and give it the chance to pounce. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he has to get out of his room. Out of the building entirely. Not the greatest idea, considering there’s a very strict curfew and he doesn’t want to get dragged in front of the Dean for violating school rules, but something propels him to his feet. He’s outside before he can really reckon with what he’s doing, walking around like he’s sleepwalking, but at least he’s not inside anymore. It’ll be nice to be under the open sky, breathing the fresh air instead of a bedroom that feels like a tomb, where the only thing he can hear is the sound of his own heart beating in his ears.

It would be nice, perhaps, in the daytime. The Academy is creepy as hell, but Martin finds the grounds quite lovely, in a sprawling, Moorish kind of way. They go on for miles and miles, and the only buildings in sight are attached to the Academy. He supposes it sets a tone of academic isolationism and the whole thing might be rather romantic in the right light.

Moonlight, Martin quickly realizes, is not the right light. He’s gone from one extreme to another, from the cramped confines of his room to an expanse of wide-open nothing that goes on further than he can see. He could start running now and wouldn’t reach civilization before the sun rose.

_If you made it at all,_ whispers a voice in the back of his head. Martin shudders and pushes it away. Not the time for that, thank you very much.

There’s just…nothing. Nothing but the Academy in every direction. Nothing but open sky and rolling hills that stretch forever and try as he might, Martin can’t remember how close the nearest town is. Or even the closest building that isn’t owned by the Academy. Martin took a train to get here, but a car was waiting for him at the platform. Although, now that he thinks about it, Martin can’t remember the name of the train station. He can’t remember how far it is from here, or how long the car ride was to get here.

“You look lost.”

Martin nearly jumps out of his skin at a voice suddenly behind him.

“No,” he says softly, though a quick glance at his surroundings reveals that he doesn’t actually have any idea where he is. He hasn’t been to this part of the grounds before and he can’t recall the path he took to get here. Lord, maybe he is asleep and this is some kind of odd dream. It would explain the gaps in his memory, how he seems to keep moving without meaning to. He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Actually, I think you might be right about that.”

Martin recognizes the boy from a few of his classes. Michael, he recalls, mostly because both their names start with M. He’s tall and gangles and he has a long face with a perpetual smile, like he’s in on some joke.

“I’m Martin,” he says because Michael hasn’t said anything else and the silence is beginning to make him twitchy.

“I know who you are,” Michael says with that same smile and a tilt of his head. “You’re new. New is interesting.”

“Don’t suppose you could point me back towards the dorms, could you?” Martin tries. He’s already unnerved without this Strange boy popping up out of nowhere and knowing his name. He’s got a tattoo, Michael has, that pokes out of his shirtfront. Some kind of spiraling design and in the dim light, Martin imagines that it’s moving. He blinks it still again.

“Have you heard about Helen?” Michael asks abruptly. His smile widens. “She liked my tattoos too.”

“No, sorry,” Martin replies, practiced politeness coming to the fore as he scrambles for a way to end this conversation, and quickly. “Who’s that?”

Michael’s smile is so lopsided it looks like his whole face is shifting. Martin squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again Michael’s face has stabilized. _Christ, Martin, get a grip_. “Helen Richardson. She disappeared into one of the doors. You know how it is.” Martin doesn’t know how it is. “I wonder if she’ll ever come out again. Hm. Doubt it though.”

“One of the doors?” Martin hears himself asking, even though some part of his brain insists that he stop talking. Walk away. Right now. The capital-S Strangeness hums.

“Oh yes,” Michael says with another odd smile. “They’re everywhere and nowhere.” His eyes find Martin’s and something in Martin _freezes_ , locking up from the inside out. Michael stills and they stay that way for a few moments that stretch into minutes, into hours, before he tilts his head the other way and a strand of long blonde hair falls into his eyes, breaking the connection. “You need to get back inside, I think.”

“Yes,” Martin says, holding his arms tightly around himself. He remembers a school counselor from years ago teaching him about body language, about not always hunching his shoulders and trying to seem small. Martin doesn’t think that counselor has ever been in a conversation with Michael in the middle of the night because right now, small and unassuming seem like the safest things to be.

“I know a shortcut,” Martin says, humming a bit under his breath. He points at a door that Martin hadn’t noticed on his walk over, but then again, he doesn’t remember how he got here. It’s not too big a leap that he didn’t notice a door, especially in the dark. “Right through there. You’ll be back in no time.”

Something prickles in the back of Martin’s mind, some warning instinct, but it’s quickly smoothed over. Michael’s just being helpful. Sure he’s odd, but it’s dark and spooky out here and Martin is just being silly. Besides, it’s just a door. The worst that could happen is he gets a little more lost. The Academy isn’t that big; he’d be back in no time if he actually paid attention.

“Michael,” comes a new voice out of the shadows and Martin jumps again. Lord, what is _with_ people and lurking about at night in this place? At first Martin can’t make out any features except for the light of a cigarette glowing in the darkness before a boy with long hair shot through with white steps closer. “I thought we talked about this.”

Michael claps his hands together and in the gloom, his fingers look much longer than they have any right to be. His laugh scratches at the back of Martin’s mind like static. “Archivist, hello! How nice to see you.”

“Michael,” the stranger, this Archivist, says, his voice low like a warning. He comes even closer and Martin notices silvery pockmark scars dotting his skin wherever the dim light touches it. Like cigarette burns, perhaps, only cigarette burns aren’t that distinctive kind of color.

“Oh, but you’re no fun,” Michael complains. His smile flips completely, almost comedically so, but he still looks like he’s laughing. “It would be entertaining, you know it would.”

“We have very different definitions of that word,” the strange boy says blandly. He almost looks bored by the whole encounter and part of Martin wants to demand that they both stop talking in riddles and explain what’s going on here. Explain what’s going on at this school, in fact, because _something is wrong_ and nobody else seems to notice or care. “Be on your way.”

“Killjoy,” Michael pouts but he shrugs his lanky shoulders and strides off. His shadow is much too long and Martin could swear that there’s nothing in the door he opens, the one he pointed Martin to as a so-called shortcut. Nothing but swirling black.

Martin looks away from the door, certain it’s going to disappear before his very eyes and he doesn’t think he can handle that at this very moment, not when it already feels like he’s losing his mind.

“Thanks for—” Martin starts, turning towards the new boy. He’s certain he hasn’t seen him in any of his classes. Martin would remember, because on top of the scars and very distinctive hair, his would-be rescuer is actually quite fit, in a _hasn’t slept in a week_ kind of way. Martin’s always had a bit of a nightingale instinct when it comes to crushes, a side-effect of growing up with an ill mum.

“Are you stupid?” the boy demands, whirling on Martin before he can finish his sentence. “Or do you just look stupid?”

Martin’s mouth hangs open a bit. Not what he was expecting. The boy’s tone is still clipped and unkind, but there’s vitriol there that there wasn’t before. His hands are shaking slightly and he reaches one to fix his hair over his forehead.

“What?”

“Because,” the boy says, building up a head of steam, “I thought you might just _look_ dull. I was hoping for that, honestly, but wandering around here in the middle of the night—Christ, talking to _Michael_ , of all people—is genuinely, properly stupid.”

“I’m…sorry?” Martin says, now thoroughly nonplussed at the sudden flip-flop. Sure, Michael is creepy—this whole damn place is—but this boy is acting like he’s some kind of danger. Michael is just a student. This is just a _school_.

The boy pinches the bridge of his nose. There are more scars on his arm that Martin resolves not to ask about lest he get his head ripped off. “Don’t be sorry, be _smart_ , Martin.”

“How do you know my name?” It’s not a priority, but it is strange that everyone seems to know who he is. Perhaps there was some kind of new student announcement, Martin doesn’t know.

The look the boy gives him could strip paint. “Not important. Come on, before you manage to attract someone else’s attention.”

The boy takes off in a huff and for the first time, Martin realizes that he doesn’t feel Strange. He’s prickly and a bit mean, but he lacks the weirdness of the rest of this place, the awful humming that makes Martin think that he’s in a dream—in a nightmare.

And it isn’t as if he has many other options, so he follows, trailing behind the boy, who is walking so quickly through the dark that it’s almost a run. Twice Martin nearly loses sight of him and has to jog to keep up with only the light of the still-lit cigarette to guide him.

It takes longer than it should to reach the dorms, though Martin could swear that he was only out walking for a half an hour before he saw Michael. Less, perhaps. The boy doesn’t talk to him again, only huffs to himself as he leads the charge back to the dormitories.

“Here,” he says when they finally by make it back. He stamps out the cigarette like it’s personally offended him and Martin notices that his hands are still shaking.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, because this boy is odd but he did do Martin the favor of bringing him back here. And stopping…whatever Michael had in mind. Martin can only guess, but the crawling feeling in his gut warns him that it wouldn’t have been very nice. 

“I’m fine,” the boy says, glaring at him from beneath his hair. It keeps flopping in front of his eyes. Lord, he has lovely eyes but the bags under them make Martin want to invite him upstairs and make him some tea.

Martin bites his lip. “Thank you,” he says instead, because he has a sense that such an invitation would go over like a lead balloon.

“Yes, you’re quite welcome,” the boy says. “Don’t wander at night, Martin. And tell me—” He sucks in a sharp breath before clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Tell you what?” Martin asks, trying to pinpoint what it is that put the sudden look of panic on the boy’s face, but the boy just shakes his head, already backing away from Martin. His hand remains over his mouth. “Are you alright?” he asks again, but the boy is walking away again.

Martin watches him go, bewildered by the entire encounter—by the whole night, actually—and he notices the dull sheen of plastic in the boy’s trouser pocket. It’s a rectangular object and wholly out of date in this century. An old-fashioned tape recorder.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, but his room doesn’t feel oppressive anymore either. Martin keeps turning over the night’s events, worrying at them until they’re smooth and polished in his mind. His discomfort with Michael, the fear of being alone with him, of being alone on the grounds, it all felt real at the time, but now he can’t seem to remember why. It’s like it happened to someone else. Like he was only an observer to the whole thing.

The tape recorder is something too, and Martin worries at that when thinking of his encounter with Michael starts to make him dizzy. Sasha said something about tape recorders, during his first day in the library.

It’s almost morning when Martin finally remembers and he feels foolish that it took him this long. He used to feel proud of his memory, but now it feels like it’s slipping. Like he’s recalling through a sieve.

The tape recorder sticks out though, and eventually Martin puts a name to the face. His surly rescuer, it seems, is also his boss.

_Well_ , Martin thinks as the sun rises. _Nice to meet you, Jon_.


	2. Descent

Martin doesn’t see Jon the next day during his shift at the library. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; whatever hours Jon works clearly conflict with the other assistants’ schedules. It’s probably designed that way, considering how downright unfriendly Jon had been the night before.

“Not alone you aren’t,” Sasha says when Martin tells her that he’s going to grab dinner before returning for the rest of his shift.

“Excuse me?”

Sasha slaps the back of Tim’s head and he jerks from where he’d been slumped over his desk, half-asleep. “Come on, lazy, we’re getting dinner.”

“We?” Martin asks. They’ve never gone with him before. Not that he’s complaining—by and large they’re the only two normal people at this school, but it’s still strange.

“Well we need to eat too, Martin,” Sasha says, stretching her arms over her head.

Tim yawns hugely. “What, you saying you don’t want us around?”

Martin knows that he’s teasing but he shrinks a little anyway. “No, not at all. It’s just…you’ve never come with me before. So.”

Sasha and Tim make eye contact, fleetingly, for just a split-second, but Martin feels as though he’s watching an entire conversation happen at an astonishing speed. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak Tim-and-Sasha so he’s left feeling rather out of the loop. It’s a feeling with which he is achingly familiar.

“Just thought you could use some company is all,” Tim says, short and stilted like a lie.

“Did Jon tell you?” Martin tries, because it’s the only thing that makes sense. “About me and Michael?”

Martin definitely doesn’t imagine the way Tim blanches and as he moves to scrape his fingers through his hair, Martin notices a bit of discoloration on his skin. Perfectly circular, like the silver scars on Jon, but duller. Like he’s wearing concealer. Martin doesn’t get a chance to look closer before Sasha clears her throat loudly.

“Yes,” she says, her freckles starker now that some of the color has drained away from her skin. “He mentioned it.”

“We thought you knew,” Tim says in a rush.

“Knew what?” Martin asks. Doesn’t demand, but he can feel himself growing frustrated with all of their damned double-speak. It’s like everyone at this school speaks in code and no one bothered to give him the cypher.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Sasha says significantly. “It’s nothing, okay? This school’s a bit weird, is all. We thought you knew that, but I think you’re a little too nice for your own good.” She nods like she’s trying to convince herself. “Don’t worry, we’ll show you the ropes. How about that dinner, yeah? I’m starving.”

“Sure,” Martin agrees. If they’re going to lie, he’ll match them in kind. He doesn’t know what’s got them so spooked, but he’s heard stories about secret societies and all sorts of rich people bullshit in places like Oxford. Maybe that’s it. Maybe the Magnus Academy is just really into the whole old world society aesthetic. It would certainly explain some things. The secrecy and shadiness of the students and why everything is so looming and isolated at the same time.

Sasha doesn’t seem to pick up on the lie, smiling gratefully. She’s probably just happy to have reached the question and answer portion of the conversation. Martin isn’t surprised, though. One advantage of being seen as stupid is that no one ever thinks he’s smart enough to lie to them.

Martin’s quite a good liar. It’s not something he’s proud of, exactly, but it is a skill that’s come in handy more than once in the past. He thinks it’ll be especially useful here.

He’d like to ask more about Jon, what he said to them about what happened last night, or more general questions like why he’s so vitriolic, but Martin doesn’t think his new friends will appreciate that line of questioning. And he may be irritated with them for their obvious, fumbling lies, but Martin is in no position to turn down companionship, especially with two of the only normal students he’s met so far.

For their parts, Sasha and Tim seem to take their newfound positions as his guides to the Academy seriously.

“It’s like…” Sasha explains as they walk into the cafeteria. It’s mostly full which isn’t surprising considering that it’s dinnertime, but Martin feels more than one pair of eyes on him. On all three of them, perhaps, but mostly on him. He’s getting paranoid.

“Have you ever seen _Mean Girls_?”

Martin blinks at Tim’s interruption and Sasha raises an eyebrow before scrubbing her hand over her face, looking harried.

“ _Mean Girls,_ ” she sighs. “Fine, as good a metaphor as any.”

“This school is a bit like that,” Tim explains, on a roll now. “There’s cliques and the like. People you want to avoid at all costs.”

“Like Michael?” Martin guesses.

“Bingo,” Tim agrees.

“Anyone else I should watch out for?” Martin asks.

“Prentiss,” Tim says before the question is even fully out of Martin’s mouth, his normally friendly face suddenly unyielding. “She hangs out in the greenhouse, mostly. I’d avoid it.”

Martin makes a mental note.

“Also the entire sailing team,” Sasha adds.

Martin didn’t know they had a sailing team. He thinks that they’re rather far away from an appropriate body of water for that, but Tim nods like Sasha’s made a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

Sasha and Tim point out students as they grab their food and exit the dining room. Technically, someone is supposed to be in the library at all times, but Sasha assured him that Jon is probably around somewhere and even if he isn’t, students rarely need help from research assistants anyway.

Martin tries to memorize the names that go with faces that have become passingly familiar, but he knows it’s a losing battle. He’s always been a bit rubbish with names. There’s a Georgie, who Martin might remember because this particular Georgie is a girl, a Melanie, a Daisy and an Alice, who might be the same person but he’s not sure. Plenty of ordinary students too, but some of the names stick more than others. Basira and Jared and Gerard—perhaps it’s because they remind him of classmates in the past. Perhaps it’s the Strangeness humming beneath his skin. Martin doesn’t exactly how anymore. He’s having a harder and harder time differentiating between Strange and ordinary even as some instinct warns him that it’s imperative—no, _vital_ —to know the difference.

Tim and Sasha seem to have mellowed by the time they return to the library, both smiling and swapping stories of student antics.

“If you see Georgie in here, run for cover,” Tim jokes over cooling curry. Martin has to admit, the food in this place isn’t half bad, especially compared to the rot they used to serve at his old school. Kids knew better than to pay for it, lest they be viciously ill by the end of the day.

Sasha shoves him from her place on top of the reference desk. No doubt they’ll all get told off for being unprofessional if anyone comes in and sees them like this, but Martin doesn’t mind. It’s almost like having friends. He’s never been good at friends.

“Sod off, Tim, that’s mean.”

“Why?” Martin asks, smiling as he looks between the two of them.

“Georgie and Jon dated as first years. Apparently it ended ugly.”

“We weren’t here, so we don’t know, but they are _tense_ ,” Sasha admits, setting her food down. “They’re civil, you know, but still. It’s so awkward.”

“I can imagine,” Martin says, trying to laugh along. Jon’s probably into girls, then. He tries not to feel disappointed. He only met the bloke once and he was unpleasant the entire time. Still. Martin knows that there’s a chance that Jon fancies girls and boys, but Georgie’s gorgeous and there’s no way Jon would look twice at anyone who looks like Martin after dating someone like her. He shakes his head before continuing, hoping the others don’t notice the direction his thoughts have spun. “Although, it kind of seems like Jon is tense with everyone.”

“You have no idea,” Tim says, grinning, before moving on to another story. The rest of the shift is over quickly, punctuated by stories and laughter and despite the rather disappointing revelation about his chances with Jon—which, Martin has to admit were slim to begin with—is easily the nicest time he’s had at the Academy since his arrival.

“You two have a good night!” Sasha waves as they lock up. Tim hovers behind.

“We’re heading in the same direction,” he explains when Martin gives him a searching look. “Give me a second to go to the toilet and we’ll head off together, yeah?”

Martin has the distinct feeling that he’s being babysat, but considering it’s well past sundown at this point and what happened last time he walked alone in the dark, he’s willing to go along with it. Tim nods and hurries off, leaving Martin in the antechamber of the library, just past the massive doors. The building is still lit, but the architecture making the doorway look massive and imposing. Like it was built to withstand a siege. It reminds Martin a bit of stories of the Library of Alexandria, a great trove of knowledge so advanced and dangerous that it might’ve changed the whole world before it burned.

He hears his mother’s voice in his ears, chiding him for being silly and fanciful. It’s just a library at a school, nothing more, nothing less.

Tim hasn’t been gone for very long when there’s footsteps from the front of the building.

“Sorry,” Martin calls, recognizing one of the students Sasha and Tim pointed out earlier. Gerry or Jared or something. Tall and lanky, with a really, _really_ bad dye job that reminds Martin of those videos of ducks being coated in oil. Goth gone wrong. “The library’s closed at the minute.”

“I need to find them,” the boy says, coming closer. There’s something staggered about the way he walks.

“If you’re looking for a book, I’m sure someone can help you tomorrow,” Martin says, still defaulting to politeness. He’s not a librarian, but there are plenty wandering around the library during the day. Unfortunately, though, they’ve all gone home, leaving the research assistants to close up and deal with…whatever this is.

“You don’t understand,” the boy says, coming even closer. Burn scars crawl under his chin, down his neck and beneath the collar of his black shirt. Martin didn’t notice them before but now he can’t rip his eyes away. It looks like this boy walked out of an inferno. “You have to help me, I have to find the books.”

“Which…which books?” Martin tries. Instinct warns him to back away, to not engage with this, but it’s not the same as it is with Michael. It’s different. This boy looks _scared_.

“I have to find them,” the boy says again, pressing even closer. His hands come up like he’s going to try and make a grab for Martin’s collar before he stops abruptly in mid-movement. There are little marks on his knuckles and wrists, little ovular shapes that Martin can’t quite make out. “You have to help me find the, _please_.”

“Which ones?” Martin asks again. God, where’s Tim? He should be back by now.

“The Leitners!” the boy wails, digging his black-marked fingertips into his cheeks like he’s trying to rip at his own skin. “I know they’re in there, I have to find them!”

“Erm,” Martin hedges. He’s almost considering opening the library back up because whatever has got hold of this boy, it’s clearly beyond reasoning with. Maybe he’s on drugs or something.

“Hey-o,” Tim’s voice cuts through Martin’s thoughts. “Sorry about that.” Tim pats his stomach. “Curry. I love it but sometimes it doesn’t love me back. Hey, you okay?”

“Uh,” Martin starts, his eyes darting back to the frantic student—only to find nobody there. The hall is empty. His breath catches in his chest and for a second it’s as if he imagined the whole thing. “I thought—”

“You thought what?” Tim asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Nothing,” Martin says quickly, a decision made. He likes Sasha and Tim and he appreciates their company, but they’re clearly not going to be repositories of information on this place. If they want to keep their secrets, fine. Martin will do the same. He’ll just have to figure things out on his own. He’s done it before. “Sorry. I thought you fell in or something. You certainly took your time in there.”

He must do a good enough job of schooling his features into a believable expression because Tim brightens immediately.

“Hey, man, I’ve got a sensitive stomach, alright? Don’t judge.”

Martin smiles and ribs him a little more as they walk back to the boys’ dormitories. The grounds don’t feel unfriendly tonight. They’re still unshakably vast, but it doesn’t feel like he’s falling into nothing anymore.

“Hey, I just remembered,” Martin tries as they push into the building. Tim’s in a different wing and they’ll be splitting off soon. Martin doesn’t want to let the opportunity slip by. “One of my teachers referenced the Leitner books in class the other day and I’d never heard about them. Any chance we have copies in the library?”

Martin’s eyes don’t leave Tim’s face as he asks, searching out his reaction to the name. Martin has no idea who Leitner is, or what his books are, or what the sweet hell that Goth boy was on about, but he knows he didn’t imagine it. It was _real_. It happened.

Tim takes a bit too long to reply, his mouth pressing into a tight line before he speaks. “I don’t think so.” He masks it with a grin and a sideways look. “But the library is huge. I doubt anyone could name all the books in there, not even Jon. One of your teachers brought that name up, you said?”

“Just in passing,” Martin replies coolly. “He was talking about eclectic books and it was just one name on a list. Now that I’m thinking about it, I might be misremembering the name.” He’s truly talking out of the side of his mouth with this one, but Tim’s reaction is enough to confirm what Martin suspects. Whatever these Leitner books are, whatever their significance, they’re somewhere in the library.

“What teacher?” Tim asks with too much intensity for just a passing question. He must realize it too because he immediately steps off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m trying to figure out what to take next year and anyone referencing old books might be worth taking.” He laughs unconvincingly and Martin realizes that he is much, much better at this than Tim is. “There’s a reason I work at the library you know. Don’t let this handsome face fool you, I’m secretly a giant nerd.”

Martin laughs in kind. “S’not a secret, I’m sorry to say. It was Mr. Lukas,” he says, pulling a name at random.

Martin doesn’t imagine the way the blood drains out of Tim’s face. “I’ll have to look into him.”

“Mm,” Martin agrees noncommittally. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Goodnight Tim.”

“Goodnight.”

They part in silence and Martin adds three new pieces to the puzzle he’s forming in his mind. The burned boy from before, whatever the Leitner books are, and now Mr. Lukas. Martin hasn’t a clue what could be so bad about a teacher to warrant Tim’s reaction, but it makes him curious enough to make a note of it. It’s something at least, a place to start.

The next week doesn’t mark any new progress in his makeshift investigation. Martin can’t find anything catalogued in the library under Leitner—or any of its approximate spellings—even though he’s sure he read Tim’s expression correctly. He hasn’t seen the Goth boy again either. Not in the library or in the halls, though Martin has been keeping an eye out. He doesn’t know what he’d be able to do even if he did see him; Sasha and Tim have become his shadows and there’s hardly a minute that goes by when one of them isn’t by his side in some fashion or another.

The only headway he’s made is entirely by accident. Mr. Lukas _is_ one of his teachers—history, though he doesn’t seem to have much enthusiasm for the subject—and Martin has been paying special attention in class, trying to discover what might’ve made Tim so jumpy. By all accounts, Mr. Lukas is just another boring academic, though Martin notices that he takes special pleasure in mocking students who can’t come up with the correct answers in class. That’s not altogether unusual. Martin’s had vindictive teachers before, though why anyone who clearly doesn’t like children would go into education is beyond him, but his insight doesn’t come from class, but from an overhead conversation in the Dean’s office.

Martin doesn’t think that a sit-down with the Dean is entirely necessary, but Dean Bouchard insisted that they meet at least once in Martin’s first month at the Academy, to assess how well he’s settling in. The whole thing makes him a bit twitchy, to be honest. Martin’s never chatted with the Dean of any school, boarding or otherwise, and finding himself sat in the waiting room make him feel rather like he’s done something wrong.

“Elias, you get that boy under control, or I swear—”

Martin doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he arrived early to the meeting—an old habit, one borne of nerves and a crippling fear of inconveniencing anyone with his tardiness—so he’s well within range to hear Mr. Lukas shouting.

He shouldn’t pause his music to better overhear. He does anyway.

“Lower your voice, Peter,” Dean Bouchard says coolly. His voice is authoritative and brooks no argument. It makes Martin want to sit up straighter in his chair.

“You _said_ you had things under control,” Mr. Lukas continues. Apparently, Dean Bouchard’s voice doesn’t have the same effect on him. Probably because they’re both adults, colleagues.

“We will discuss this another time,” Dean Bouchard says abruptly.

“No, we will—”

“Peter.” Even from outside the office, the Dean’s voice sends a chill down Martin’s spine. Mr. Lukas mutters something Martin can’t quite make out and Martin is too distracted by the sudden appearance of Dean Bouchard to see him leave. Which is strange, because Mr. Lukas would’ve had to walk right past him. Odd thing to miss.

Martin’s missing a lot of things these days.

“Ah, Martin,” Dean Bouchard says, appearing in the doorway. “Thank you for waiting. Why don’t you come on in?”

The conversation itself is benign, just a lot of nonsense about how he’s settling in, his classes, and is he making any friends. Dean Bouchard seems nice enough, but Martin can’t help but wonder who he and Mr. Lukas were talking about. It nags at him, becomes another mystery on his list.

Martin’s beginning to think that finding answers is just going to bring up more questions.

Despite their frustrating determination to keep him in the dark, Martin does appreciate having Sasha and Tim around. They’re both cheerful and welcoming, and besides an aversion to talking about anything Strange, seem to be making genuine efforts to get to know Martin and make him feel included. It almost makes him feel badly about going behind their backs.

Almost. Martin doesn’t have a lot of alone time in the library, but none of the research assistants schedule their own shifts—that’s an administrative duty, well over their paygrade—he plans on taking full advantage of his solo closing shift at the library.

“Well, we’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Tim says as he leaves. He’s hedging and Martin wonders whether or not he’ll offer to stay longer.

_Not unless whatever you’re so scared of gets me first_ , Martin thinks but doesn’t say it.

“Tomorrow,” he confirms.

“Bye, Martin!” Sasha manages to sound a bit more cheerful but Martin can still see the worry in her eyes, the way she keeps fiddling with her red hair.

Martin waves at them both from behind the desk and waits exactly ten minutes after they’ve both gone before he starts digging. This is a library, for God’s sake, there have to be _some_ answers here. He can’t search Leitner in the electronic catalogue system without it being preserved so he forgoes modern searching methods. Half of the library is analog anyway.

The card catalogue isn’t much help, but Martin searches the shelves in any case. The Goth boy—Martin looked in a yearbook and recognized him as Gerard Keay, though he doesn’t have the burn scars in his photograph—had been so certain that the books were in the library. Not just certain. _Desperate_. Martin wants to know why.

The library itself doesn’t turn up much, so Martin turns his attention to the archives. They’re nearly as expansive as the library itself, though much more disorganized. Tim and Sasha complain about it enough when they have to dive into it for research assignments. It seems to be a cluttered mishmash of boxes, books, and artifacts without much of an organizational system that Martin can determine. Which makes looking for a specific set of books like finding a bundle of needles in several caverns full of haystacks.

Wonderful.

Martin doesn’t know how much time has passed—hours, probably, and it occurs to him that if anyone has come to the research desk and found it empty that he’s going to get written up—when he hears a voice in the back of the archive. He didn’t even know there was a room back there but it looks like a tiny office of some kind. Martin peeks from behind a wobbling stack of boxes to see a half-open door, softly illuminated from the inside.

“Statement of Nathan Watts.”

It takes Martin an embarrassingly short amount of time to recognize Jon’s voice. It’s smoother than it was when they met, all the creases and emotions ironed out, but Martin listens as it becomes more animated as he reads the statement. It’s like he’s breathing life into it, or like it’s breathing life into him. The statement itself is terrible—something about people going missing in Scotland—but Martin can’t help but want to stay by the door and listen to Jon read.

_Get. A. Grip._

Martin shakes himself after a few long, fairly inexcusable minutes. Jon is his boss, kind of. He’s probably not into boys. Plus, he’s deeply rude. Martin shouldn’t just be listening by the door while he reads like some kind of creep.

But he did help Martin out of a spot of bother last week, and, if he’s honest, Martin’s always been a bit useless when he has a crush. Plus it _is_ late, so—

Martin does the very British thing and makes him a cup of tea.

“Hello?” Martin says softly, announcing himself and knocking gently on the office door upon his return. There’s no response from inside, no voice. Martin pokes his head into the office, but there’s no one inside. It’s every bit as cramped as the rest of the archive, though there has clearly been some effort to exert tidiness over the space. It is also completely empty. “Jon?” he tries again, stepping further into the office. He definitely shouldn’t be here but he’s already snooping.

Martin sets the mug of tea on the small table, careful to keep it away from the filing that’s filled with handwritten papers, as well as an old fashioned tape recorder that looks like a prop out of an old noir film. The box is labeled “STATEMENTS” along with a series of numbers Martin vaguely recognizes as the archives’ anachronistic filing system. A quick look at the statements within reveals that they’re all…odd. Supernatural, actually. They’re all about preternatural goings-on, for reasons Martin can’t quite understand. Sure, the library has more than a few paranormal books in its collection, but _all_ of the statements? Why on earth would someone collect stories that Martin can only assume have come from nutters and liars.

Then again, Martin has seen more than a few Strange things himself since he arrived. Who is he to judge?

He’s still pawing through the box when there’s a creak from behind him. Martin swings around, an apology already on his lips for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. He expects to see Jon’s silhouette in the doorway, but there’s no one there. The door he just walked through, the only way back into the archive, is empty.

It’s also different. Instead of another room full of boxes and books, there’s just darkness. Martin’s heart hammers in his ears as he takes a step closer. The walls beyond the door look like they’re made of dark stone and instead of a hallway, it’s a staircase, one spiraling down into the dark.

“I wonder what you’ll do.” Michael’s echoey voice floats up to greet him as Martin points the light of his phone torch down the stairwell.

“What is this?” Martin demands, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking. Dread pools in his gut, turning his body cold.

“A gift,” Michael smiles, twisting a curl around fingers that are much, much too long. Martin can see him now and his proportions are all wrong. It’s not a trick of the light or the gloom, like Martin thought the other night. It’s real. It’s _wrong_ , but it’s real. “You’re curious. We share that trait, you know.”

“This is a trick,” Martin says, backing away from the door. It looks like it’s following him, getting bigger and bigger.

Michael’s laugh is a shivery echo, scraping down Martin’s spine and filling his mind with static. “Of course it is! That’s what makes it fun.” Michael doesn’t climb up the steps but he seems to get closer anyway. “I’ll give you a head start, though.” He crosses an overlong finger over his chest. _Cross my heart and hope to die_.

“No,” Martin says, shaking his head. “No, I won’t.” He can wait this out. It’s just a door, or a dream, though something in his gut knows that this was painfully real.

“That’s the best part!” Michael laughs. “You will, because you have to. No other choice, Martin. Not unless you want to starve in here. Only way out, I’m afraid.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Michael says. His smile spins, distorts, making his whole face look like it’s made of putty. “But I’m not unreasonable. Like I said, I’m curious. There’s so much speculation about you, Martin. What you are. Why you’re here. I know you have questions too. Maybe you can find the answers you’re looking for.”

“By wandering through the dark?”

“By finding the Archivist,” Michael says softly. The Archivist. Jon. “He’s down here too, looking for something. I rather want to keep him. But who knows? Maybe you find him, you find your answers, and you get out.”

“And what happens if I don’t?” Martin asks, dreading the answer. The doorway yawns ever wider and it feels as if there’s a cold wind sucking him in now.

Michael’s smile is splitting and terrible. “I keep you, of course.

Keep him. Lovely. Not at all possessive and awful to think about.

_This is a bad idea_ , Martin thinks. He reaches behind him and takes a sip of the now-tepid tea, for comfort. For strength. For whatever idiocy is about to come next.

“Fine,” Martin says after a moment, steeling himself. He puts down the tea and takes the tape recorder without really knowing why. It makes him feel better, having something in his hand. Something tells him his phone isn’t going to be very much use down there. “Have it your own way. And I’ll be taking that head start.”

He hopes he sounds braver than he is. He hopes Michael doesn’t notice his hands shaking, or hear the way his heart thumps against his ribs. He hopes and he descends.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this except that it's fun, I like it, and I do what I want.
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round. Hit me up on [tumblr](https://funkyfaerie.tumblr.com/) if you want to yell about how badly I, an American, messed up British slang.


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